Of College and Cannibalism
by shylittleghost
Summary: Before he stumbled upon the Dark Sanctum, Lesley was a student at Brightwall Academy, where he acquired some strange companions and even stranger habits.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The Lesley of this fic is, indeed, the very same Lesley from the Dark Sanctum quests in Fable III. I absolutely fell in love with this character when I first played through, and I feel the lack of fic and art centered on him is absolutely criminal. You will also find the trio from the 'The Game' quest here, in the role of supporting cast. Furthermore, this is __**NOT**__ a university A.U. – I just have some very strange headcanon. Finally, I do apologize for any inaccuracies you may find here. I have only played the third game, and my knowledge of earlier games is based solely on what I have read. _

Of College and Cannibalism

Chapter 1

Anna was standing before him, wringing her hands to pieces.

"Now, dear," she said, "I understand that it's only natural for boys of your age to be a little… _curious…_"

At his father, he caught her flinging a sidelong glance. The man hadn't once moved from the couch. Lesley was mildly impressed at his ability to remain resolutely absorbed in his novel, in spite of (or perhaps on account of) all the commotion taking place in the living room.

"_But_", continued his mother, going out of her way to place emphasis on the exception, "This… this is a little much."

With a little cough, she drew his attention to the severed head that lay at her feet.

Really, he didn't see what all the fuss was about. The thing was dead after all – it wasn't as if he'd brought a _live_ hollowman home (though, he wasn't entirely sure if _live_ was the best expression to apply to hollowmen in the first place).

"But mom," Lesley whined, giving Anna the most genuine expression he could muster, "it was an _experiment!"_

"It was an experiment!" Lesley rehashed three months later while trying to calm his mother down after she had breached his private study (all her fault, really; she knew better than to enter without knocking) and discovered the heap of gore, which made up the bulk of his latest experiment, on his desk.

Banning Lesley from Mourningwood had stinted the incoming flow of dismembered hollowmen and exhumed corpses. However, while dissecting rats in the middle of the living room was, relatively speaking, a vast improvement, it was nonetheless considered incredibly antisocial by just about everyone who was not Lesley Brown. And while Mrs. Brown was abundantly supportive of his curiosity – bless his poor old lady – she was notable for having a weak heart and a partiality for _not_ coming home to dead things scattered around the house.

Lesley's little experiment on the effects of the smog from Bowerstone Industrial on human lungs just so happened to be the last straw. Mum never did manage to find out where he had gotten that unusually _fresh_ corpse.

After a particularly heated debate over the dinner table with his mother (and a not-so heated debate with his father, who couldn't be bothered to part his attention from the tiny model of Bowerstone Castle he was building), a compromise of sorts had been reached. If Lesley wished to learn, then far be it from Anna to prevent him from doing so. She did, however, insist that he seek out his knowledge through a more – how did she put it? – a more _respectable _source.

Not that Brightwall Academy was really his idea of a respectable source. It did have quite the reputation, there was no denying that, and he did admire the architecture of the place. Sparrow had good taste. In short, the Academy was just a bit too stiff for his pallet – and maybe, even, a bit too goody-two-shoes. There was a good chance they would not even allow him to provide his own corpses for dissection in the anatomy class he'd registered with. Nevertheless, mother had insisted, and who was _he_ to upset mum?

With a sigh, Lesley sank back in his seat, one cheek resting against the window of the monorail coach. He peered out, watching as mile after mile of yawning, black chasm disappeared behind the car. If it hadn't been for his mother's insistence, he would have simply _walked_ the underground passage to Mistpeak. It would have made for an interesting journey; he'd heard that the Hobbes who lived in the inky caverns bellow had the most _fascinating_ bone structures.

But that was completely out of the question.

At the station, he hired a carriage to conduct him to Brightwall. They made good time, arriving at the village well before sunset. During the short trip, Lesley had made the assessment that Mistpeak, while not nearly as enchanting as Mourningwood, would suit his needs. One of the upsides to getting away from Bowerstone would be the dramatic reduction of light pollution at night, and it was enough to have Lesley entertaining the idea of purchasing a telescope. Mistpeak Lake, he though, seemed like it would be the ideal station for a personal observatory.

In Brightwall, he went immediately to the inn to take a room. It would have to do until he could find a more permanent living arrangement – his parents connections ran a bit thin on this side of Albion. When he'd made sure that the porter had transported his things to his room in accordance to his satisfaction (for he never _did_ trust anyone but himself to handle his more sensitive equipment), Lesley ventured downstairs for his first ever pint in Brightwall.

As soon as he sat down, he immediately regretted not putting on something a bit more casual. Ever since Logan has assumed the throne, the Academy's admission fee had risen, and business in Brightwall was poor. The town received few travellers, and he – dressed in a sharp dress shirt and vest, much in fashion now in Bowerstone – stood out like a cock among hens. On more than one occasion, he glanced up from his flask to find a young (or, in some cases, not-so-young) dame giving him the look. At eighteen, Lesley was a bit sallow-faced, but handsome nonetheless. His clothing, and the fancy gold watch strapped around his wrist, practically advertised the fact that this was a young man who came from money, and the lack of wedding band on his ring finger appended that he was a _single_ young man who came from money.

Thankfully, Lesley took to bed early with a headache before any of his secret admirers could approach him. The air here was putting him through a bit of a bend – it smelt far too _nature-y_ for his liking. He missed his old room in Bowerstone, and the scent of decay that would waft in through his window from Mourningwood.

Come morning, though, he was feeling much better. As he dressed, this time making sure to substitute his fashionable shirt for a plain, long robe, he even had a sense of renewed determination to make the best of his current situation. Brightwall Academy, after all, _was_ home to many brilliant minds, and even _he _could suffer to learn a thing or two from them.

Yes, he could definitely work with what he had.

His optimism was sucked away when, upon stopping off at the Academy first thing in the morning, he learned that an err on the clerical side of things had resulted in the course he had registered for, _Foundations in Anatomy_, was already filled, and he would not, in fact, be counted among those peers attending that particular class.

With a frown, Lesley listened as the clerk explained that only one foundation course remained open for the coming semester. It was only when the clerk mentioned the title of said class that that he finally snapped.

"What the _hell_," he demanded, "is _Old Kingdom History_?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

His first day at Brightwall Academy had not, thus far, been to his satisfaction. That damned clerk had given him the wrong class time, of course, and he'd shown up at the Academy a good two hours early. He had passed the time before class browsing the school's extensive library, which much to his disappointment was entirely banal in its subject matter.

After rejecting an entire shelf of dusty old history books (he felt no need to drag his mind through _that _mucky subject any more than he had to), a few titles from the rare book collection caught his eye. All, however, turned out to be varying degrees of disappointment. _How to be a Master Swordsman_ was most uninformative. The next book he picked up certainly sparked his attention at first, with its vivid descriptions of spilt blood and apocalyptic forces… however, when the death-dealers were revealed to be aquatic birds, Lesley was severely disappointed. It served him right, he supposed, for not reading the cover. He had thought he had a winner with the final book, _The Pangs of Sunset_, which he had hoped might contain the history of that mysterious mansion he'd heard tell of in Mourningwood. The book was certainly _interesting_ – Lesley had to give it that much – but it was hardly what he had expected, and he came away from it with more knowledge of Reaver's anatomy than he ever dreamed (or hoped) of having.

Class itself had been a tremendous bore. It had consisted, for the most part, of the professor giving an introduction, losing his chalk, forgetting everyone's name, and then spending the next two hours lecturing on the origins of Albion. It was, at best, a ponderously speculative lecture. Lesley had not thought it possible for someone to derive so much to say from the discovery of a few old irrigation tracks and a vase or two.

The only upside was his professor's declaration of intent to spend the coming week lecturing on the rise of the Court. Though Lesley knew very little about the Court, the words 'void', 'evil', and 'mass murder' had all been used by the professor in describing the upcoming topic, the combination whereof nearly put Lesley into a girlish fit of excitement.

The class ended by noon, and since Lesley had not yet decided on an elective, the rest of his day was free. After all the unwanted attention from the night before, he wasn't terribly keen to return to the inn for lunch. Instead, he opted to purchase a pie from a nearby vendor and take his lunch just outside the Academy. Perched on the edge of the fountain at the academy's front entrance, he was treated with a view of the stalls and houses below, and of the people hurrying their way through the streets. Mist off the fountain whispered against his neck; it felt good, on a hot day like today when there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. As much as he hated to admit it, it was pleasant to have a change from the smoggy skies of Bowerstone for once.

"Your power is _astounding!_ Twice you've cheated death!"

At the sound of the strange voice, which was decidedly sinister in the most forced way possible, Lesley raised his head.

"Yet!" the melodramatic voice continued, "Your abilities are trivial compared to the infinite power of the Spire, which will soon be mine!"

He had absolutely no idea what was going on, but _this_ he had to see.

Wrapping up the remains of his pie, Lesley made his way towards the source of the voices, which, from what he could tell, seemed to be the small patch of woods which crept up around the entrance to Brightwall Academy.

"Now," said the voice with an overemphasize crescendo, "_sleep._"

As he picked his way along what seemed to be a natural trail, Lesley heard a second voice pipe up, "_Never!"_ and music began to play.

"What? What is _that?_"

The path suddenly opened up into a clearing, and he found himself quite awkwardly standing in the midst of three red-cloaked figures. The nearest, who was wearing a mask over his face, slowly closed the box he was holding and the music stopped. A second young man, who stood at the center of the trio, appeared quite cross.

"Oh, come on now! We're going to have to start over… _again!"_ he snapped, and Lesley recognized his as the melodramatic voice he'd heard earlier. At this second man's feet a third lay, who now raised his head and peered curiously at Lesley.

"Does this mean I can get up now?" he whined.

"Not now, idiot!" growled the second man, giving him a sharp nudge with the toe of his boot.

"I beg your pardon!" Lesley blurted. "I didn't mean to interrupt; I was just curious what you… people… were doing."

"Think nothing of it," said the first man, setting the music box down and extending a hand. "I'm Mark, Madron of a Thousand Faces, and my friends here are Ben – er, Ka-lev, I mean, Lord of the Faeries – and…"

"Jim," snapped the second man. "Now can we get back to our game or should I set out the saucers for tea?"

"You'll have to excuse him; he can get a little testy about gaming."

"We're live-action roleplaying!" the third man, Ben, chirped. Much to Jim's annoyance, he sat up, knitting his hands together and smiling at Lesley. "Right now, we're re-enacting Sparrow's defeat of Lucien!"

Lesley raised an eyebrow. "Live-action… what, sorry?

"Live-action roleplaying," Mark offered. "It's where you act out a character."

"The name's a bit of a mouthful," Ben admitted. "Too bad there wasn't a shorter way of saying it… like an anachronism or something."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," muttered Jim.

Lesley cleared his throat. "Ah. Well, it's been a pleasure, but I really should…"

Just then, a look of dread crossed Mark's face. Lesley, briefly, wondered if there was a Balverine behind him. "Oh, where are my manners! We haven't even asked you for a proper introduction yet, have we?"

Perhaps Balverines would have been a preferable alternative – he wasn't really one for introductions. "Shit," said Lesley, then blushing, added "Oh, no, sorry! I meant to say 'sure'. My name's Lesley. I just arrived here and - ."

At the mention of the name 'Lesley', Jim snickered. Mark shot him a look saturated with murderous intent.

"You're in Old Kingdom History, aren't you?" Ben piped up. "I saw you in class today. I'm in foundation year too, yeah?"

"Well -."

"That's fantastic!" Mark exclaimed. "Oh, a history major – how exciting! You must know the Lucien conflict in-and-out. How about joining us? Ben would be greatly relieved."

Ben gave a knowing nod. "It's hard to do the voices for all three heroes, you see."

A flush crept up along the inside collar of Lesley's shirt. "W-well," he stammered, "I don't care much for history at all, see. The course I wanted was already booked."

The last time Lesley had seen so severe a reaction amongst a crowd had been the day he'd dragged a half-dead Hobbe home through Bowerstone market. In fact, the dismayed horror upon the trio's faces was eerily _familiar_. Worried he'd done something wrong, he amended himself by adding, "It's just not my cup of tea, really. But this… this Lucien story looks interesting. How does it go again?" (He didn't want them to think he was _that_ ignorant about Albion's history, after all).

Whatever alarm had swept over the gamers instantly disintegrated at the opportunity to out-fact one another. "After the hero, Sparrow, defeats Lucien using the music box," Mark began, "the heroes are freed and Theresa takes control of the spire, granting the hero one wish, which was, um…" He paused and scratched his head. "Does anyone remember what Sparrow wished for?"

"Money!" Jim barked. "And power!"

"Jim!" squeaked Ben, "That's terrible! Poor old Sparrow would never have wished for any of _those_. He would have wanted his sister and his mum back… then they could have all lived together happily ever after."

"That's stupid!"

Mark shook his head. "No, no, you both have it wrong, see. Sparrow was a hero; he would have sacrificed the good of the few for the needs of the many…"

At that point, Lesley (quite correctly) realized the conversation was no longer centered around him, and so he took his leave before any of the gamers could notice. Besides, he thought as he left the woods and the increasingly heated voices behind him, it wouldn't have been terribly fun to be around when things got ugly and the music box went airborne.

He still had the entire afternoon ahead of him, and while he felt obliged to make a dent in his readings for the next day, Lesley was hardly one for reading while the sun was still up. Books were always best when read by candlelight, after all, so he decided on a nice little walk instead. Maybe he would get out of Brightwall, even, and explore Mistpeak to see what - .

Something slammed into him, causing his thoughts to scramble then vanish. He reeled back, arms spread for balance, only then catching sight of something dark bobbing at the corner of his vision.

"Watch where you're going!"

A waspish, large-eyed young man was sprawled at his feet, papers and books hazardously strewn about the ground in a halo around him. His glossy, dark-brown hair was tied back in a black velvet ribbon. While Lesley was not the best judge of appearances, he remarked to himself that the young man might have been regarded as attractive, were it not for the unfortunately narrow mouth that cut a stern line in his face.

Then his eyes were drawn away from the young man's face and to the books and papers on the ground, and he realized it would be the polite thing to do something about those.

Kneeling, he muttered, "Sorry, so sorry, let me, ah, help with those..."

But before he could be of any assistance, the young man slapped his hand away. "I'm _fine_," he hissed.

Lesley wasn't able to utter a single word of protest, for the young man quickly scooped up the remains of his belongings and shot to his feet. As he picked himself off the ground, Lesley watched the young man's figure meld into the market crowd.

_Well_, Lesley thought to himself, _that was a bit odd_.

As he set out at a slow pace towards Mistpeak Valley, he mentally went over a checklist of sociopathy symptoms, but quickly decided more researchwas in order before he could draw any further conclusions about the mysterious stranger.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Lesley Brown was never, ever going to bad-mouth the history department again. Professor Igglebod's lecture on the origins of the Court, coupled with a few loose-cannon speculations concerning the nature of the Void, put just enough spring in Lesley's step that week to make everyone around him stop and stare. He made no notice of the attention he was receiving as he floated up the stairs of the inn towards his bedroom, humming Albion's traditional funeral dirge in a cheerful b-major all the way. After all, what was so unusual about a man being put in his best spirits after a two-hour lecture on the topic of tyranny and mass-murder?

There were only two things which managed to put a damper on the young student's mood: for one, it was Friday, which meant his classmates had the whole weekend ahead of them to attempt to pull Lesley into that awful hodgepodge known as the social fray. Second, they had finished up with the history of the Court that week and were moving on to the rise of William Black, which, for Lesley, meant an entire weekend of reading up about that goody-two-shoes Will.

Perhaps getting to know the social climate of Brightwall wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Contrary to the sense of 'dusty, haven't-been-outside-in-over-a-decade' that people seemed to get a whiff off from Lesley, he wasn't entirely a lame duck in social situations. In fact, he even prided himself on a certain sense of polite humility in conversation. Where his mother had failed at keeping the drawing room free of dead bodies, she had certainly succeeded in raising a son with a well-bred tongue.

Of course, the real trouble lay in falling in with the _right_ sort of society – a trouble which Lesley was not looking forward to tackling, given the overall eager-but-inescapably-dull disposition that plague Brightwall's population. It would be a dark day in Bowerstone when a loose chicken or two made for the most interesting thing to happen all day, which is exactly what had occurred to him in while in Brightwall. In fact, vandalism by poultry made up for the highlight of his day _twice_ this past week, thank you very much.

Fortunately for Lesley, he was sparred the ardor of tracking down the right sort of society when one of the roleplayers he'd encounter earlier that week (Ben, maybe?) stopped him on his way out of class and invited him to a little hurrah back at the house he and the other two blokes were renting out for the semester. It sounded all very provincial to Lesley, of course, but given the choice between that and settling in to six chapters of William Black, a little bit of provincial flair could be just what he needed.

Spurious Nuttock, settled just outside of Brightwall's gates, wasn't exactly the ideal student home. It was roomy, yes, but its location put it as far away from the Academy as one could be without leaving Brightwall altogether. That, and there was always the off chance of getting munched on by a pack of ravenous wolves on the way to class.

But at least the rent was cheap.

At the Nuttock's front door Lesley waited, a chill running down his spine compliments of the icy fog rolling up off Mistpeak Valley. It certainly _was _eerie out here, this late at night. He wondered if the gamers ever saw Balverines this close to the village – now _that _would be exciting!

Probably more exciting than the festivities in which he was about to partake.

Also, there was that little matter of whether or not one was expected to bring a housewarming gift to a college party, especially in light of the fact that he had never been invited to the Nuttock before (or to anywhere else in Brightwall, for that matter). Was the presentation of a gift customary? He had never been to any parties in Bowerstone either, but whenever his parents had company, some form of tribute or another was always presented, and Lesley certainly wasn't one to risk social offense over something so petty. What exactly an acceptable housewarming gift consisted of, he wasn't sure, but he was keeping his fingers crossed that the bottle of ale purchased at the inn would fit the bill. It had been a bit of a last minute dilemma, really – none of the other shops had been open.

It was Mark who answered the door, a smile on his face and telling flush across his cheeks. "Ah, Lesley!" he exclaimed. "We weren't sure if you would make it out. Come in!"

Then Lesley, before he could protest, was dragged inside, and the dark chill of the night shut out behind him. Mark, of course, neglected to tell him where he might put his housewarming gift, so Lesley was left to awkwardly cradle the bottle of ale under one arm as he was led to one of the many tables set up around the cottage.

For a student's dwelling, Spurious Nuttock was relatively clean, if one were to overlook the temporary appearance of empty bottles on various surfaces throughout the space. Two grand bookcases housed a lifetime's worth of books – to which Lesley's attention was instantly drawn. Had he not been in company, he and those bookshelves would doubtlessly become _very _intimately acquainted. The books weren't the only thing which caught his attention, though. Several other shelves lined the living area, upon which were displayed carefully rendered, _disturbingly_ detailed models of various buildings and towns.

One such model had been taken off its shelf and placed in the middle of the table to which Lesley had been dragged. He recognized it immediately from the river painted down the middle and the little wooden bridges that humped over said river – it was a model of Bowerstone market.

Now, Lesley could not say for certain – after all, this _was _his first college party – but he had a very distinct notion that most other college parties did not, in fact, involve elaborate models, character sheets, and impassioned roleplaying. What he had been expecting, he could not exactly explain, other than his certainty that alcohol would somehow be involved… which it was. Beyond that, however, the difference was startling.

Jim polished off the rest of his pint and growled in his direction. "Do you plan on sitting down any time soon, Lisa? Pull up a chair already!"

Ben, who had been absently playing with a tiny model Hobbe, suddenly appeared mortified. "Jim! His name is Lesley!" he then turned to Lesley with a timid smile. "I'm glad to see you, mate. You didn't look so certain when I asked you to come."

So it _had _been Ben that invited him.

After a moment's hesitation, Lesley found a chair and joined the trio at their game table. There were other people here he could talk to, of course – but they were all equally involved in their own games and drinking, and Lesley wasn't in the mood to make any more introductions than necessary.

Mark and Ben had reassured him that he would catch on to the rules soon enough. Just watch us play, they said. We'll explain as we go, they said. Well, thought Lesley in a huff, _that _went well – it was only a matter of minutes before the gamers were entirely absorbed in their game and forgot entirely about their guest. Something about needing to find the +4 Dildo of Impaling in order to defeat the Dread Dragon attacking Bowerstone Market. On the surface, he shrugged it off as uninteresting. Internally, he prayed this wasn't another historical re-enactment because… well, that went without explanation, really.

Housewarming gift or not, he eventually grew fed up and began taking swigs from the bottle of ale he'd brought. As he did so, he allowed himself to lean back in his chair and take in the rest of the "party". From what he could tell, there were several different kinds of games being played – a couple other groups were using models and figurines like his trio was, while others were playing with cards and dice. He even saw one group with a chess board, the only game here he knew how to play. Briefly, he considered joining in on the chessplayers' game, but he wasn't drunk enough for that… yet.

As much as he hated to admit it, it was… nice, just to sit back and relax like this. Not that he was making conversation with any of the persons present – but just being there _technically _counted as socializing, didn't it? Mother had told him he needed to get out more. Part of him supposed that, by just sitting there, he was soaking up all the conversation around him in a vicarious form. A social osmosis, if you will.

_Okay, so maybe I do need to get out more, _thought Lesley as he took another gulp of ale. The bottle was half-empty by now. He had never been drunk before. What did being drunk feel like? Was it a tingling sensation? If so, he was _definitely _drunk.

Just then, he heard the door behind him open. As it did, he felt the telltale breeze on the back of his neck, waking him up just enough to remind him that he had six chapters to read for Monday, and that yes, he probably should go home and get some sleep now.

With a groan, Lesley extricated himself from his chair and prepared to excuse himself – when he caught sight on the young man who'd just entered.

He was wearing his hair tied in the same black velvet ribbon as he had been wearing on the day Lesley had accidentally knocked him down. With unmasked curiosity (hell, he was too drunk to care if anyone noticed him staring anyway), he watched the young man proceed directly to the table of chessplayers and take a seat.

"Are you leaving us now, Liz?" Jim garbled.

"Lesley!" both Mark and Ben corrected him this time. The other game rolled his eyes.

"No, I think I'd like to stay a bit longer," Lesley replied. He pointed out the man with the ribbon in his hair to them. "That chap there – what's his name?"

Jim squinted at the young man and frowned. "Chap? I thought he was a lass."

"Jim! And that's… Timmy, I think. I don't know his last name though," said Mark.

"Oh, him!" Ben too was gazing at the stranger now, plump mouth twisted into a frown. "I've heard he's strange…"

At precisely that moment, Timmy glanced up from the chess board to find all four men staring quizzically at him from across the room. He froze, eyes bugging out like a Hobbe caught at sword point.

Lesley clucked his tongue thoughtfully. "Look now, I think we've startled him. Let me go over and talk to him – apologize, maybe?"

"That'd be good," Ben said, before adding, "and tell him I'm sorry for calling him strange, yeah?"

"He doesn't even know you said that, Ben. Stop being an idiot!"

"He's just trying to be polite, Jim."

Ignoring the gamers, Lesley strolled over to the chess table. As he drew near, the players' chatter ceased. Lesley swallowed back a growing bundle of anxiety as he suddenly became very much aware that everyone at the table had their eyes on him. Timmy, for his part, watched him silently from beneath his choppy, too-long bangs. Expectation was written in the tension at the corners of his mouth and in the furrow of his brow.

"Um, hi," Lesley stuttered. He briefly considered offering his hand to shake, but quickly retracted that idea. "You're… Timmy, right?"

Timmy's mouth shrank into a hard line. "Yes."

"I'm Lesley. Lesley Brown."

Timmy dipped his head, eying the chess board. "Are you here for a game?"

In all honesty, it had been years since Lesley had played chess, and he was never any good at it to begin with, but for the sake of not coming across as a creepy, socially-awkward neophyte, he decided now might just be an ideal opportunity to hone his skills. "That would be… lovely."

The other players cleared a spot for him, and Lesley sat down directly across the board from Timmy. The other man was sizing him up now with – much to his dismay – a skeptical look. "You're white – make a move."

"Ah. Yes. Move… right."

Lesley blinked at the pieces in front on him and suddenly wished that he hadn't drunk that half-bottle of ale. It certainly didn't help that Timmy was watching him like a hawk now, judging his every move.

Eventually, he decided to move one of his pawns forward one space, if only because he was positive _that_ at least was a legal move.

At least, he hoped it was.

Timmy screwed up his face. Reaching out, he advanced one of his own pawns two spaces ahead – the one directly in front of his queen.

"Is this your way of apologizing for knocking me over the other day?"

Lesley let out a startled sound.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

"I thought it'd be a nice gesture," said Lesley, once he'd gotten his wind back. When he moved his next chess piece, he barely glanced at the board. "I don't know many people here, see. You seemed… interesting."

"You can't move that piece there."

"Why?"

"Rooks can't jump."

"Oh."

He could tell he was flushing now, though he wasn't sure if it was brought on by the alcohol or the situation he currently found himself engaged in.

Definitely the alcohol, he told himself as he took another drink.

"You're a student."

It was a statement, not a question, but Lesley couldn't help but think there was a question in there somewhere. Whatever it was, though, went completely above his head, and all he could do was dumbly stutter, "Y-yeah."

"What subject?"

_Oh._

"I'm just taking Old Kingdom History at the moment. Not my choice – I wanted to do anatomy."

As he put his bishop into play, Timmy asked, "And what do you think of Old Kingdom History?"

"It seemed a bit boring at first, but…" he paused, waiting for his brain to catch up with his words. Yup, definitely drunk. "But I did enjoy the bit with the Void and the Court. Dark stuff... I like that kind of thing, you know?"

When he amassed the courage to look up, he was shocked to find Timmy _smiling _at him. "I enjoy it too. 'Dark stuff', I mean."

Definitely a sociopath.

Lesley chuckled, secretly pleased that his suspicions were being confirmed. "Yeah, well we're onto new material now. William Black, I believe. Got six chapters on him for Monday. Seems like a bunch of goody-two-shoes nonsense to me."

"Oh, it is."

When he made the next move, Timmy leaned forward, so close that Lesley could feel his breath on the bridge of his nose – hot and wet and heavy with the reek of alcohol, like he pictured his own breath to be at that moment. "But you should do the readings anyways. You'll find it… informative."

"How so?" Lesley asked, wondering if Timmy planned on pulling away any time soon.

He wasn't. In fact, he seemed intent on leaning in even further, until he was close enough to whisper into Lesley's ear.

"Do you believe in magic?" murmured Timmy, voice slightly raw and slurred around the edges.

It was then that Lesley realized his opponent was every bit as drunk as he was.

Drunk or not, Timmy had him beat in less than a dozen moves.

Before he could so much as congratulate Timmy on his win, Mark, Ben and Jim were there to whisk him off. They wanted him to play some minor character or another in their game, and refused to take Lesley's blatant protests as an answer.

Somewhere along the line (though he didn't have a bloody clue when), he realized that the bottle of ale was empty and that they were not, in fact, playing Hobbes and Hallowmen anymore. His memory of the rest of that night – and for that matter, the following morning – was a bit vague. 'A bit vague', of course, meaning 'non-fucking-existent'.

He did, however, hear reports of the party the following week. Apparently, Jim had chased him around Spurious Nuttock wielding the Dildo of Impaling, shouting that only he could slay the Dread Dragon. Mentally, he made a note to have words with Jim over the incident.

Angry, stern, disproving words.


End file.
